Like You, Only Sweeter
by Riddelly
Summary: He has three days left to live, and it's probably a wonder that he's held out this long. Somewhat PWP.


**A/N** _Nothing much to say here, except for the fact that I can't write smut involving women. I really can't. Also, this is sort of rushed? That was somewhat intentional, though. _

**Rated M** _for obvious reasons_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

_Get me out of my mind, get you out of those clothes  
I'm a liner away from getting you into the mood  
One night, yeah, and one more time  
Thanks for the memories, even though they weren't so great  
He tastes like you only sweeter_

* * *

Two days, twelve hours, and fourteen minutes left.

It feels like a lot of time, somehow—he's not sure how his mind can convince him of that, but he's not complaining. It's simple enough—he doesn't _want _to die. He never wanted to die, not once in all of the too-short years that his life has consisted of. Yes, there were times when he didn't particularly desire to _live, _of course there were, but he always chose conscious existence over the alternative. After all, people needed him. Sammy needed him.

He died—he _is going to die, _that is, but he can't resist thinking of it in the past tense, since it's irrevocable anyways—for his brother.

Maybe that makes him a hero, or otherwise just selfish. He certainly doesn't _feel _heroic. He never does, but especially not now. What sort of hero lies on hotel beds with a sickness in his stomach and a blankness in his mind, forcing himself to breathe, only holding himself together with the solid green numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table?

Numbers, yeah. He's used to numbers at this point. They're his constant comfort and tormentor all at once—comfort because they're reliable, even as they work against him. Numbers are never going to betray him, not up till the very end. They're only doing their job. Just like he was only ever doing his job, until Azazel fucked it up backwards and forwards, forced him to go against all of his own morals and resort to the pathetic act of consorting with a demon, violating the laws of nature just to bring his damn brother back.

And Sam's response wasn't gratefulness, or relief. He didn't want to _live _the last year. He wanted to fight death, to flirt and play with it and coerce it into letting Dean go, which was never going to happen. Even now, with two days, twelve hours, and twelve minutes left, he's out there somewhere, probably consorting with Bobby or otherwise the internet, searching desperately, frantically for any last resort.

He's not with Ruby, because she's here.

And she has been for several minutes now—fourteen, according to the numbers of the clock. She arrived a while back, and stood against the wall, unmoving, unspeaking. He chose not to react—there was nothing he had left to say to her. There still isn't. So they've both been stewing in the silence, each wondering if the other will ever speak, musing as to whether words are needed, what they'd consist of if they were voiced.

He sighs. It moves his whole body, inflating his lungs and pushing harder on his bloodstream. His heart is racing, but he's used to that. It's been beating faster and faster over the last few days, fighting for that final stretch, like it can sense the end approaching.

She must be here for a reason.

"I'm not going to make it," he says, more to himself than her. He uses an elbow to force himself into a sitting position, pulling his knees up and looping his arms around them to watch her. Her face is impassive, eyes pale and cold, mouth pressed into a meaningless smirk.

"Of course you're not."

He laughs. Not for any particular reason—maybe to reassure himself that he hasn't completely forgotten how it feels to be happy, or otherwise just because he doesn't want her to think that he cares. "Well, I'm glad one of us is still optimistic."

"You're awfully lighthearted for a dead man."

He doesn't want this, this stupid back-and-forth. He just wants to know why she's here, so that she can leave. He still wants to kill her, sort of—like an afterthought, an absentminded desire, to be tacked onto the list of dreams he'll never accomplish. But she's waiting for a response, so he goes on, shrugging.

"Not dead yet, am I?"

"Suppose not." She slinks over, her movements soundless, and sits on the bed next to him. He almost cringes away, but there's no real point to it. "Reckon I'll be there for the grand finale?"

"Nice sentiment, but I can't help but think you might be the one to end up causing it."

She rolls her eyes. "Still don't trust me?"

"Should I?"

"That's your own choice."

"Fair enough," he mutters, lowering his eyes. He wishes that the clock wasn't digital, that it would tick and fill up the space of wordlessness, but he's mocked with determined silence instead, forcing him to fix it himself. "Any particular reason you dropped by?"

"What, are you too busy stewing in the hopelessness of your own fate to appreciate a little charitable visit?"

"Charitable. That's interesting. What if I prefer to enjoy my last night on earth in my own company?"

"You don't," she replies easily. "Don't play the introvert. I know you better than you wish I did."

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't. We all have our secrets."

Her snort of humorless laughter rocks the mattress slightly. "Yeah. Sure." Then she's standing up again, moving across the room and turning to face him while leaning against the wall. Her dark shirt rides up slightly as she crosses her arms, revealing a strip of pale skin over jeans that hang rather low on her thin hipbones. "What makes this your last night, anyways? You've got two more."

"Yeah, but after this it's gonna be _tomorrow, _and then _today. _This is the last day that _isn't _the last day, really."

"Well, aren't you philosophical."

"Yeah, it's the whole imminent death thing. Does wonders for the wisdom trait. You should try it sometime."

"Been there, done that. I was in hell for years, Winchester. It's not a nice place."

"Then you probably can't wait to see me shoved down there."

"I _have _been trying to keep you alive, you know."

He wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss her. Heated, he figures, his eyes raking her slender form and piercing eyes. And he'd probably regret it as soon as their lips touched. He can't help but want her, though, in a sick sort of way. Of course he hates her, but it's a flaming hate, one that he craves a way to satisfy.

"I find that a bit hard to believe," he replies slickly, placing his hands on the bed and stretching his legs out, "to be completely honest. You don't care about me."

"I like you."

"As I said."

Her mouth quirks for real this time, a light smile playing at her lips. "You're quick, you know," she murmurs. Her chest rises and falls as she speaks, golden waves of hair slipping across it. "And people call Sam the smart one."

"Sam is the smart one."

"You're my favorite, though."

"Oh, yeah?" He leans forward a bit, his shoulders hunching, not looking away from her eyes. "Well, I appreciate you showing it so thoroughly."

She continues on her own point rather than responding to his, each word measured, almost practiced. "Sam is stronger by default, but you fight harder. He's resisting his power, his dark side. You aren't."

"Aren't I?" God, he hates her. The way that she casually talks about his baby brother's _dark side, _like Sam is freaking Darth Vader and not a human being… he wants to stick her with her own knife, the blade of which is sheathed neatly at her side.

"Maybe because you don't have one to resist. He's _dull, _though." Her tongue plays ever-so-lightly along the edge of her teeth, contemplative. "He lives his life in a whisper, maybe with the occasional stifled shriek. You live yours in a shout."

"Who's getting philosophical now?"

She lowers her eyelids and shakes a strand of hair out of her face. He's starting to itch with desire now—he wants to make her beg for mercy one way or another, even if that's not really his style on any level. She brings out the worst in him, he concludes.

"Well, if my life is a shout, you'd think I'd go out with a bang. Rather than, well, sitting in a shitty hotel room and exchanging wisdom with a demon bitch."

She doesn't flinch at the insult. "It's your choice."

"I suppose it is," he consents, then stands up, closes the distance between them, and kisses her like his life depends on it.

She doesn't speak, doesn't make a noise, but her hands lift, one moving to the back of his head and the other slipping under his shirt, fingers cool against the hot skin there, like she's used to this, was expecting it all along. Maybe she was. Her mouth is dry and fierce, unhesitating, and her teeth cut into his lip hard enough to draw blood, which runs along both of their tongues. His fingers wind themselves up in her blonde hair, grip it as fiercely as possible, and he forces her roughly against the wall, hearing her skull knock into it, feeling her exhalation against his chest. Her legs move roughly against his, and then their hips nudge together as he begins to strain against his jeans, running his tongue behind her teeth and wrapping his fingers around the front of her shirt.

For a demon—or for anyone, really, if he'll just admit it to himself—she's not bad. In any case, there's no submission; she battles against him rather than letting him take over her. Her hands move fast—one second they're at the small of his back, then moving over his shoulders, then cupping his chin. They're both breathing rapidly, air touching each other's hungry lips, and heat gathers in the rough friction of their jeans, so that all he feels is burning pressure, head to foot. For a half-instant, he draws away, forcing her head in place—her chin is tilted upwards, her eyes half-closed and her lashes long and dark against the crimson blush of her smooth cheeks. He moves his mouth to her neck, savoring the salty spike of sweat beginning to gather in its hollows, not at all neglecting to emphasize his teeth against the soft skin.

She curls her fingers around his shirt, then forces it up and over, and he's wrestling his arms out of it, exhaling in relief when he's free of it. Still, neither of them speak a word—they don't need to. The shirt hits the floor in a tangle, and it occurs to him, distantly at yet with burning certainty, that he's going to fuck her right here, against the wall, and that he's going to come for the last time into a demon, and that maybe if John Winchester had been able to see what his son was sure to become, he wouldn't ever have died to save him.

He doesn't care, though, so he just keeps moving his mouth down, over her collarbone, before reaching the thin barrier of her T-shirt, black and emblazoned with a band logo so faded that he wouldn't be able to read it even if he was in a proper state of mind. Her hands help him to pull it up, and it coasts through the air in the opposite direction of his, hitting the wall violently with their combined force. He brings his lips right to the edge of her bra, and she gasps for the first time, her breasts quivering with tension. It's rewarding, that fierce little exhalation, and he returns it with his own hushed sigh, his fingers tracing her bra strap as hers fumble with the zipper of his jeans. Then her fingers are moving past the denim, sliding it down his thighs, and pressing insistently against his waist, her nails clawed, her palms damp. He shudders involuntarily as he struggles with the unfairly delicate clip of her bra, growling in frustration as it stubbornly refuses to come undone. He's rewarded with her spiteful snicker, forced out through heavy breaths, and silences it by slamming against her, their hips colliding, him hardening even more.

Her response is to dart a hand under his boxers and wrap it around him, moving instantly in quick, hard strokes that stiffen him up like just about nothing else. He bucks slightly and wrenches at her bra strap, finally tearing it away with frustration, moving in immediately to her breasts, his tongue stroking her stiffness insistently. She convulses underneath him, and he forces himself to work through the stars bursting behind his eyes, to force down her waistband without even unzipping her pants, the precise moment that she brings him to a full erection, aching with need. He watches her through shadowed eyes, and she glances down towards him, her bright eyes gleaming, daring.

He digs his fingers into her shoulders and thrusts in with no preparation, dry and hard, and the resulting cry from her lips, dissipating into a raw laugh, is all the reward he could ask for. Heat throbs through him, and his mouth falls open—he's unsteady, but he just pushes her harder into the wall, and this time she doesn't resist, just lifts her legs—he moves to reach underneath, supporting her from the bottom, and her calves wrap around his thighs, both of them panting as he pushes into her repeatedly, sensing his orgasm beginning to twinge just under the surface. Normally, he might resist longer, but he allows it to come, moaning loudly and letting his eyelids flutter as the primitive pleasure, shuddering and releasing into her, consumed by a prickling, shivering heat that takes several seconds to ride through.

"Mother_fucker,_" he groans thickly. He could keep going, but he's done—he's done, and he's not even aware of pulling out, but then he's stumbling backwards, sinking onto the bed. She slides halfway to the floor, her head tilted down and her hair shielding her face from him. He can hear her breathing, though, sharp and heavy.

For perhaps twenty seconds they stay like that, unspeaking, and then she forces herself up fully, pulling up her jeans again, pacing across the room to retrieve her bra. He watches the way that her hair falls over the lean muscles of her bare back, the light shadow that her spine casts, the visible ghosts of her ribs. She dresses, still unspeaking, and he does the same, after a moment, so that, for a while, there's nothing but the rustling of fabric and denim. Then he's turning around, to see her facing him, gazing at him in almost the exact same way she did when she first arrived.

"You good now, then?" he questions. "Found what you were looking for?"

"You're going to die in two days," she says.

"Two days, twelve hours, and a minute," he corrects almost instinctively, sparing only a brief glance towards the clock.

She cocks an eyebrow. "Guess you have one more thing to be punished for in the Pit, then. It'll hurt like a bitch, just in warning."

"It was worth it to make you yell like that, Blondie."

She sneers distastefully, then scoffs and starts towards the door. "You make me feel so dirty," she retorts, heavily sarcastic.

"Mutual."

Her eyes roll. "I'm sure."

Neither of them say anything more. She leaves, the door banging behind her, but it's not angry—not any angrier than it would normally be. He sighs, falling back onto the bed, his eyes finding the clock once more.

He's not sure why they did it, why either of them wanted to or why they took the opportunity. He's not sure if it was the right choice—just like he's not sure if it was the right choice to stay in the hotel while Sam went out, or to trust Ruby in the first place, or to make the deal nearly one year ago, or to ever bring his brother out of his perfect life at Stanford.

He's not sure about anything, really.

Except for the fact that he has two days, eleven hours, and fifty-nine minutes before the hellhounds come.


End file.
